


Too Much Caffeine

by frighteningverse



Category: Morrissey (Musician)
Genre: Cruising, Frottage, Gay, M/M, Morrissey is a horny old man, Mutual Masturbation, Strong Language, hotel shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-04
Updated: 2015-10-04
Packaged: 2018-04-24 19:32:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4932511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frighteningverse/pseuds/frighteningverse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Morrissey takes an interest in a regular at the coffee shop he frequents.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Too Much Caffeine

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work of fiction. Terrible, no good, very bad fiction. I ran to the nearest confessional the minute I clicked “save” on the final draft. 
> 
> This fic has existed for a while on Tumblr, but I've decided to give it a new home here.

The man in the smart shirt and trousers had strolled in to the same coffee shop in London’s Mayfair at precisely the same time every Wednesday for the past three weeks.

12:24 p.m. Like clockwork.

Morrissey took no small satisfaction in the fact that this week was no different.

Their interaction was limited to a brief locking of the eyes and a quick smile, only lasting as long as it took the man to cross the small distance between the shop counter and the exit.

On the third week, the man lingered near the counter a little longer than necessary, and when his eyes began to subtly wander in Morrissey’s direction when he thought he’d go undetected (he was wrong, of course), Morrissey knew that it was time.

He had resolved that the Wednesday of Week Four would play out a bit differently. 

On the day in question, the man strolled through the door at his usual time, punctual as ever. He walked purposefully to the counter without so much as a glance towards the back of the cafe, where Morrissey sat cross-legged with a book and a soy latte. To the average observer, he looked deeply absorbed in The Metaphysics of Love, but in truth he was studying his quarry.

The man’s hair was cropped close to the head. Short, but not quite shaved. His face was chiseled, handsome, and pleasantly peppered with stubble and the tell-tale signs of a nascent goatee. His skin looked tan, a beautiful olive brown complexion, like the rest of his body would surely reveal itself to be were it not fastidiously decorated from head to toe in clothing to die for. He sported a black, three piece suit that Morrissey guessed came from Savile Row, matching straight-leg trousers and immaculately polished, plain toe bluchers. Morrissey greedily drank in the sight.

He watched as the man retrieved his coffee from the barista and stood from his seat. He tucked his book into his messenger bag, slinging it over his shoulder, and casually made his way over to the counter, where the man was busying himself with the straw dispenser.

Morrissey stopped just behind him and cleared his throat.

“Excuse me?” he asked.

The man peered over his shoulder at the source of the voice.

“Oh. Am I in your way?” He turned to face Morrissey completely and was met with a strapping smile.

“Oh, not at all. I see you here every week and I was wondering if you might like to join me at my table?” Morrissey said, gesturing to his corner of the cafe. The man’s expression was frustratingly unreadable.

“Sorry, mate, I’m on a bit of a tight schedule.”

He then looked Morrissey dead in the eye, as if leveling a challenge.

Morrissey heard his accent and immediately placed him as an East End man. Perfect. 

He clicked his tongue. “Well, that’s too bad. How about a wank, then?”

The man nearly choked on the coffee he’d been sipping, coughing and sputtering for a moment before regaining his composure as other patrons looked on, confused.

“You don’t waste any time, do you?”

Morrissey stared at him, one questioning eyebrow raised.

“My lunch break ends in 45 minutes,” was the man’s eventual response, and they walked out the door soon after.

The Dorchester was only an eight minute cab ride away, but the unbearable tension in the backseat made it seem like an eternity. Nevertheless, Morrissey knew it would only make the forthcoming event even better. He let his knee rest against the other man’s for the duration of the trip, the extent of their cab ride interaction. No words shared, just the electricity of the faintest touch. His pants were growing increasingly uncomfortable to be wearing.

When they reached their destination, Morrissey hastily paid the cabbie and stepped out of the vehicle, leading the way through the hotel doors and cutting through the crowd in the lobby. People congregating for no reason was a typical annoyance for him and now it was doubly vexing. He glanced over his shoulder and was pleased to find that his companion had kept a steady pace just behind him. 

They eventually made it to the elevator, which they boarded and rode in silence. 

When they reached the 7th floor, it took all of Morrissey’s will not to sprint for the door to his suite. He slid his keycard into the slot, held the door for the other man, and then followed him in, closing the door behind them.

They collided in a violent clash of tongue and teeth, exploring the contours of each other's mouths with a desperate urgency. Their hands roamed eagerly as Morrissey guided the other man forward to the bed while making short work of his beautiful but decidedly unwelcome shirt.

When the back of his legs hit the edge of the bed, Morrissey pushed him back with a grunt and helped him shrug off the last vestiges of his three-piece suit, tossing the shirt aside. He hastily unbuttoned his own shirt and tossed it to the floor. When he turned back, he found the other man reclining shirtless on the bed, his arms crossed defiantly behind his head, and Morrissey allowed himself a moment to stare. His gaze roamed slowly, first at the man’s feet—still sheathed in those immaculate shoes—then up his legs, to the tented crotch of his trousers and further still, lingering on his lean torso, admiring the ink traced onto taut skin. Morrissey’s gaze traveled upwards still until their eyes met, pupils blown wide with desire.

Morrissey was suddenly and acutely aware of the massive hard-on in his pants and promptly decided to do something about it. He maneuvered between the other man’s legs, pushing them apart with his thighs, and leaned down to run his hands across the man’s chest. Morrissey buried his face in the crook of his neck, sucking lightly and eliciting a low, guttural growl that shot straight to Morrissey’s dick. Morrissey angled his hips so that his groin was perfectly flush against the other man’s and rolled his hips, grinding their erections together through the fabric of their trousers.

 

The man gasped a breathy “fuck,” his hands flying to Morrissey’s hips, and Morrissey thought he might come then and there. He pulled away, leaning back to unfasten both of their pants. He scooted forward and the man followed, easing himself further back onto the bed. He leaned forward and slid his hands up Morrissey’s thighs, lightly kneading circles with his thumb, making Morrissey’s head spin. When both of their erections were finally freed, Morrissey lowered himself back down to the bed, propping himself on his forearms. He angled his hips and pushed forward, sliding their cocks together. They kissed lazily, rocking their hips back and forth. The man wrapped his legs around Morrissey’s waist and bucked his hips, desperate for more friction as his fingers weaved their way through Morrissey’s chest hair. Morrissey grunted, increasing the movement of his hips, their bellies wet with precome as their cocks slid together.

They kept at it for several long, deliciously agonizing moments until Morrissey broke the kiss and leaned back, spitting into his palm. He then lowered his arm and took them both into his saliva-slicked hand, drawing an obscene moan from the man now writhing below him on the bed. He tugged in long, lazy strokes, leaning forward to plant a trail of wet kisses along the other man’s jaw. Their lips met again, forcefully this time, and Morrissey’s jerking grew more insistent.

“Bloody hell, keep that up and I might die,” the man croaked.

Morrissey hummed in mock disappointment. “Well, it was nice knowing you,” he drawled.

His thumb teasingly grazed the tip of their cocks, causing the younger man to practically convulse. His hands slapped against Morrissey’s chest with a heavy thud and groped frantically. Morrissey grunted and leaned forward, propping himself up with one hand on the bed, spreading his partner’s legs further apart. The speed of his ministrations had been steadily increasing and now both men were determinedly fucking into his hand.

Morrissey felt a tightness building in his lower abdomen as he frantically fisted their cocks, and he knew it was only a matter of time before he came. If all of the wanton moaning the other man was doing were any indication, he wasn’t alone.

As if on cue, the other man’s hand’s slid to Morrissey’s sides and his hips began to buck erratically.

“I’m gonna come,” he wheezed. His voice was hoarse and his breath labored, and Morrissey pumped their cocks once, twice, three times more before they both erupted across the other man’s stomach.

Morrissey kept a firm grip on both of their cocks, milking every last drop before leaning down to lick his partner clean, leaving sloppy kisses up his chest, then neck, until finally their mouths met. They kissed languidly while the culmination of their messy communion sent pleasant aftershocks shuddering through their bodies.

The room smelled like man sweat and spunk, an olfactory combination that Morrissey never tired of, and he nuzzled the other man’s neck in contentment. They remained there in each other’s arms for several long moments, enjoying the comfortable silence.

Morrissey wasn’t sure how long they stayed like that until the other man cleared his throat.

“I hadn’t done that in a while,” he declared, sitting up and twisting his torso slightly to face Morrissey. He patted the older man on the head, in the same way that a football player might playfully ruffle his teammate’s hair for scoring an impressive goal. He looked thoughtful. “Cheers.”

He stood from the bed and tucked himself back into his pants, fastening his belt as Morrissey struggled to keep his expression from looking too bemused. His eyes followed the man as he collected his rumpled clothing and quickly dressed himself. Morrissey sat up, watching him silently from his perch at the edge of the bed.

“Are you off, then?” Morrissey asked.

The man nodded. “Yeah. Back to work. My hour’s almost up.”

Morrissey licked his lips in thought. “Mmm. Shame. What is it that you do?”

The other man ran his hand across his stubbled head and grinned. “I make hair look good.”

The corners of Morrissey’s mouth twitched upward into what an especially perceptive person might deem a smile.

“Well, that’s rather fortunate,” he replied, drumming his fingers against the bed, “because I am incredibly vain.”

The man laughed, and they shared a warm smile from across the room.

“I’ll leave my business card on your dresser,” he said, and he did before shuffling out and quietly closing the door behind him.

Morrissey grinned. 

He could use a haircut.


End file.
